Special ReportsIn-depth feature stories and other projects from the Staten Island Advance

At Ground Zero, a city weeps

Charles Margiotta, a recent stroke victim, courageously reads the name of his 'beautiful, beautiful son'

Sunday, September 12,
2004

By HEIDI J. SHRAGER

ADVANCE STAFF WRITER

The worst part about the mild stroke and temporary speech loss that Charles V. Margiotta suffered last week was the sudden possibility he would not be able to read his firefighter son's name as planned, loudly and clearly before a crowd of thousands at the spot where his son lost his life one September morning three years ago.

But yesterday morning, after ably reading the names of 14 victims of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, Margiotta spoke fluently over the soft accompaniment of a string ensemble and concluded into the microphone, "And my beautiful, beautiful son, Lieutenant Charles Joseph Margiotta. We love you and miss you. You're still the 'big guy.'"

In what was probably the last chance for victims' families to visit Ground Zero before the public memorial opens, about 200 parents and grandparents led a tightly choreographed ceremony with the somber roll call of all 2,749 victims' names, including 270 borough residents and former Islanders.

The theme of the four-hour observance, presented by the mayor's office, was the loss felt by parents and grandparents. Last year's service, by contrast, focused on the children whose family members were slain.

Lt. Margiotta's brother, Michael Margiotta, clutched a framed photograph in each hand of "Chuck," a Meiers Corners resident who served with Ladder Co. 85 in New Dorp.

"I haven't been back here since 10 days after the attack," he said, adding that he made his second visit yesterday because of the importance of the reading to his father. "He wanted this more than anything."

Most readers took the opportunity to broadcast a message to their lost loved one. Holding a framed picture of his son, one man tilted his head back and stretched his arms to the sky to scream, "As of two days ago, you now have a nephew!"

Other messages were less tangible. A cluster of balloons took to the sky the instant Cynthia E. McDay said her daughter's name, Tonyell. Set free from her family's hands, the balloons danced briefly over the gaping pit where the World Trade Center once stood before soaring above the city and toward the clouds.

The parents of Anthony Rodriguez, a firefighter from Meiers Corners who served with Brooklyn's Engine Co. 279, held their grief somewhat closer. Like all readers, Brunilda Rodriguez saved her son's name for the end of the list. "And our son, our beloved son, firefighter Anthony Rodriguez, our hero!"

Meanwhile, her husband watched from a distance, wearing a black commemorative T-shirt that read, "Til we meet again." His tear-filled eyes peeking up from behind dark sunglasses, Rodriguez declined to be interviewed, saying quietly, "I'm a little emotional myself."

Throughout the solemn morning, streams of people clung to each other as they walked over red and pink flower petals in a sort of trance, pulled to a solitary place consumed by memories.

They held photographs, many the size of movie posters, high above their heads, making sure their loved one was counted among the sea of framed pictures, signs, T-shirts, buttons, pendants -- stepping outside their own grief just long enough to study the smiling faces frozen in time all around them.

The third anniversary of the attacks may have brought fewer tears than the first one, but family members said the pain cuts as deeply as it did the first day.

"You can't really put it into words," said Robert Visciano, whose brother, Great Kills resident Joseph Gerard Visciano, was a 22-year-old stockbroker who had just graduated Boston College at the top of his class. "It goes right to the bone. It's like a poison you have to get out of your system. The only way to get it out is to be with family."

The Visciano family has attended all three anniversary ceremonies. Yesterday, they were easy to spot. All 10 of them, including Joseph's mother from her reader's perch on the podium and his ailing father from his couch at home, donned bright yellow T-shirts that read "Forever Young."

Robert Visciano had taken a brief moment away from his family and their spot directly under the podium to have a cigarette. He passionately spoke about the importance of letting oneself grieve, and said that coming to Ground Zero helps him access that grief.

"It opens up doors. You pick up on the energy," he said with weepy, bloodshot eyes. "It's more painful right now, but I feel like it helps you get over it; it cleanses you."

The significance of Ground Zero is more practical for Peggy McGrane, who lost her sister, Mary (Molly) Herencia, an insurance broker from Manhattan. Although she has attended the anniversary ceremony each year, it has been with great reluctance.

"To see it being rebuilt is horrific," she said. "We have nowhere else to go -- we have no remains. We'd rather go to a private ceremony every year. But with no remains, what do you do?"

The readings were interrupted by four moments of silence, two that marked when each tower was hit, and two that marked when each fell. For those moments, church bells in the distance rang faintly over the unceasing traffic on West Street.

Heidi J. Shrager is a news reporter for the Advance. She can be reached at shrager@siadvance.com.